So, by now you’ve all read my previous posts on dating, music and short skirts, college, and patriarchy. All those posts really uncovered some truth in my life that I was not prepared for, I admit.

It’s easier for me to be married now, for me to have no children now, for me to live like I do now and to relive those moments back in those days because of one core thing: I did not marry into that belief system, I didn’t have children under that belief system.

I’m married to a man who also survived the same belief system and started running for his life about three years before he met and married me. And he took me with him. I don’t have to run alone. I have a shoulder to cry on, someone to talk through these things with, someone who keeps telling me that I’m doing fine and that we’re going to figure this out . . . eventually . . . but that I won’t ever figure all this out in this lifetime.

I have a loving God for comfort, yes. That’s enough, I promise.

Easy for me to say when I also have a husband for comfort and I haven’t had to actually parent a human being yet.

There’s a huge difference between me (and other ATI/patriarchy survivors who are writing blogs) and those mothers who survived patriarchy. I don’t know that I can even compare the experiences: it’s more like apples and oranges. The mothers I’ve met are happily free, still heartbroken, and yet extremely passionate about those years. And I so appreciate them. They walk around with honesty written all over their faces. They encourage me, “Go, Trish. Write it. Tell the truth.”

Yes, it’s true in this cult there was a strong persuasion toward patriarchy. It was different from the typical church exhortation for a wife to submit to her husband. This was much more serious. This threw out any discussion of egalitarian/complementarian and drew a picture of absolute totalitarian rule. Sure, your OWN mileage may vary (YMMV), but the stories are true. Women and children suffer under totalitarian patriarchy, be it Jewish, Muslim, or Christian. I don’t know about anything but the Christian (Protestant) part. But others may know. That’s the power of telling your own story.

That takes guts. It is one thing for me to be under the authority of crazy patriarchal nut jobs; it’s quite another to be married to one. Or to be pastored by one, or to attempt to have to flee for your life from one.

If you’re a mom who survived patriarchy, you’ve given me the benefit of the doubt by reading my experiences here. My purpose with this post is to return the favor. I recognize the heartbreak, the doubts and fears, the guilt from being a mother/wife under this horrible torture system. I recognize today that you felt pain I will never have to experience. I realize that I will definitely not be a perfect parent someday, but at least I get to steer clear of this evil, this forced patriarchy/Quiverfull belief system because I now know what it is. You mothers and wives had to learn the hard way.

I really believe there’s a very good reason. I really believe God has a really good plan in spite of it all. I know a few mothers/wives who are writing about their experiences and I really, really want to say: if you have every considered writing your story, why not try in 2010? You don’t have to blog it on the Internet, I promise! But if you want to share it, feel free to send me what you’ve got and we’ll feature some stories on here. Or I’ll steer you to Vyckie over at No Longer Quivering. But that’s not the point of this post.

I just want to tell you that I was so scared to write a thing last year. It was something I wanted to hide deep inside. I was at a writing conference last March/April with two close writer friends out on Bainbridge Island and as we walked back to our car along the waterfront, I joked about something and my writer friend stared at me, “What did you just say?”

The rest is history. It took much convincing, much grace, much understanding and encouragement from my family and friends, and a lot of talking with my writing group for me to just start. And then I posted it for the world to read! Wow, I’m really low key, right?

Find a pen, find an old notebook, and just start jotting WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU. And then put it away, or show it to your husband, or your friends, or just God.

I just really believe there are so many still out there, perhaps reading this blog, that are hurting and feel like they are the only ones.

You are not alone. God is with you. And so are we all.

In the summer of 1991, when I first heard that I was going to have to wear skirts only, my first response was willing acceptance, with conditions. I had already been in Christian high school the previous year, mind you, and I wore a dress or skirt to church every Sunday year-round and had done that since I was a little girl. It was just “dress your best” on a grander scale. What I couldn’t imagine was running in a skirt, playing basketball in a skirt, or even doing outdoor gardening work in a skirt. But I figured these folks surely weren’t talking about anything like that. They just wanted us to look our best.

These folks already in patriarchy talked to us about how the new unisex clothing made it nearly impossible for anyone to tell if you were a boy or a girl and that another reason we were to wear skirts and dresses was so that everyone would know we were girls. Again, I looked at myself in the mirror late one night, attempting to put a brush through my tangled permed hair and wondered to myself how in the world anyone would mistake me for a boy.

In May/June, a month before we left to head back east to Knoxville, Tennessee, we were busy with sewing. I helped Mom cut out and sew skirts as we certainly weren’t wealthy enough to go buy new clothes. And we were headed back to hot and humid Knoxville in the middle of summer. The heavy knit skirts and dresses I already owned would be too hot. We hemmed the new outfits to just below our knees, thinking the shorter, the better (and cooler). Oh boy, were we wrong.

Arriving in Knoxville on a puddle-jumper plane from Atlanta (the stewardesses threw us our pretzels and napkins just in time for landing), I remember merging into a massive crowd of families that all wore longer skirts than ours. I was rather fascinated with the sight. (There is nothing like being in a sea of skirts and long, soft flowing curls; it’s surreal, trust me.) I didn’t immediately think we were dressed wrong, I was just fascinated with these people. It was another world. I had no idea that so many families with teenagers my age were also trying to figure out what to do with life. It was heartening and bewildering at the same time.

Knoxville, Tennessee is a beautiful city. I loved it much more in the fall, years later, when I visited there in early October. In the heat of summer (June/July), it’s hot, sticky, and well, you feel you just can’t breathe deeply. It’s silly, I know. But I’m a Pacific Northwest girl, born and raised here. We pride ourselves on fresh air, trees, and tall mountains. Knoxville has the trees alright, but the majority of our time was spent on the University of Tennessee campus. We stayed in the dorms, we ate in the campus cafeteria, and our daily classes (8 am to after 10 pm most nights) were held in the basketball arena. It no longer resembled a basketball arena, mind you. The basketball court floor was long gone and the space was packed with neat rows of folding chairs. In the middle was a tall platform with a camera crew. The stage backed up to one end of the long court and on it were two grand pianos flanking the speaker’s table. Two bookends, I thought as I saw them.

Everywhere you looked there were blue curtains hung–to divide big areas into smaller areas, to muffle the noise of the crowds that walked along the outside of the seating area (just like any typical sports arena), and to block the hot Knoxville sunshine that poured in through the many windows.

We were a bit awe-struck by all this setup. It looked so serious and professional. And then everywhere we looked, there were woman and girls in skirts to their ankles, their faces beaming with brilliant, dazzling smiles, their heads crowned with miles of long, soft curly hair (not like my corkscrew, permed curls that in the humidity frizzed into a poof). I hadn’t seen anything like this in my life. I was dazed that first day and quite excited.

The second day they began the official program: the students were to wear the chosen uniform and would go to their own classes. Ages 12 and up were to walk to another building on campus (in the middle of the hottest day that week!) for their own scheduled events. We all sweated our way across campus in our navy blue skirts and white blouses (the boys in navy blue slacks and white shirts with navy ties; many wearing their navy suit coats as well; I did not understand that). I longed for a pair of cool shorts and sandals.

We were too many for the space, I remember that day. The theater in which we were to have our own classes was too small, so many remained standing. The boys were shoved upstairs into the hottest part of the theater while the girls were given the lower level. They said it was polite for the boys to take the hot balcony seats. The girls applauded the boys’ sacrifice, and no one thought a thing about the fact that they had just successfully segregated us completely from each other. However, the topics for the day were intense: dating, rock music, and rebellion. Now that I look back on it, the person who thought up the separation of boys and girls that day was genius. Manipulative, but genius.

First they started in on our music choices. Now, mind you, I was pretty good at music. I played the piano starting at age 6 (even before that actually) and had accompanied countless choirs and soloists in many occasions. I knew about keeping rhythm with a drummer, and I also had already heard all the horror stories of the big hair bands that had “back masked” their records with scary voices telling me to die (back masking is the playing of records backward as there were messages on some of the records; for those who aren’t sure what records are, they are bigger than cds and were really popular in the 1970s and 1980s until the cassette tape kinda took over). However, that day I also learned that the rock beat ran counter to our natural heartbeat, which caused our hearts to beat abnormally, and that the beat was witchcraft from Africa. I also learned that the music was driving me to rebellion. It was addictive, counterproductive to me being successful, and that rock musicians secretly desired to have me commit suicide.

Well, I didn’t agree with any of this obviously. The beat had never made my heart beat abnormally (and my mom has an abnormal heart thing, so I knew what it was), and I loved the drums (my dad played them all through my childhood), and the whole idea about African witchcraft was just made up (Africa has very cool music! I’d already heard it; we hosted African children’s choirs at our church and their music just made you want to dance, so I knew it wasn’t witchcraft). I remember staring around me at the other girls wondering if anyone else was thinking what I was thinking.

One girl looked back at me. Her name tag read the name Sarah and she was from Georgia. “Your skirt is really short.” She said. I looked down at it. It covered my knees with navy blue fabric and looked good enough to me.

I looked back at her, half shrugging. “It’s all we have.” She pinched her lips together and slightly shook her head back and forth with disapproval.

Uh-oh. I looked down at my skirt. It still looked fine to me. I then looked at her skirt and at the skirts of others around me. Mine was the shortest. Now, in that moment, so many things were happening in my 17-year-old brain. I was trying to fit in (darn peer pressure) and I was trying to adapt because I love and respect my parents and I knew they loved me and wanted the best for me.

Even though what I was hearing and seeing at that moment contradicted everything I knew about life (which wasn’t much, but still) and even though I wished that I had stood up and walked out right then and there, I decided to give it a shot. What would it hurt? I could nod my head along with the gal standing on stage asking me to put all my Christian contemporary music (the Christian version of rock and roll) along with my few tapes of Elvis and the Beach Boys up on a shelf for six months to see I could live without it. I knew I could. (I’m blessed that I can sit down to a piano and make music whenever I want it.) I knew I wouldn’t die without it.

I didn’t agree with their points though and I thought their reasoning for rock music (and Christian contemporary music) being bad music was really off-kilter and dumb (my dad was a radio dj during my childhood and so I knew lots of Christian contemporary music), but I could flex. I was tolerant. So I nodded my head along with everyone else and went along with it. It didn’t touch my heart; it didn’t suck me in. I could handle it.

But what did touch my heart was the skirt thing. Something got inside and changed my heart. Something shifted in that moment. I compared my skirt length with that girl’s skirt length and I came up less spiritual, less worthy, and less holy. My skirt was too short. In that moment, I took that ill-placed idea and tucked it away deep inside my heart. It would be years before I would allow that idea to fully bloom and I would realize the idiocy of measuring skirt lengths, hair lengths, and whatever to prove myself holy enough.

What happened in that overstuffed, hot theater was that I let go of grace (I know this now). I let go of my ability to discern what was right for myself. I gave up something right then and there. No one took it from me, no one forced me to do it. I did it myself.

And that’s when I stepped into this Patriarchy/Quiverfull belief system, this cult that to so many of us looked so very good, that looked like the way through and that promised so much. That took away so much.

(Remember, I’m okay now. I made it out.)

But the meeting wasn’t over yet. They had asked me to change my music and my clothes. There were several more things they would ask for before the week ended. But the first day had changed everything already.

I’m Generation X.

I tested out as Generation Y a few years ago because of my social media addiction, but I proudly identify with the X-ers. We grew up under Reagan and were heavily influenced by the 1980s. An excellent book, X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything From Sucking by Jeff Gordinier confirms what I already knew: we first became visible to the world in 1991, during the ascent of Nirvana and the grunge music that would define us to our parents, the Boomer generation. They first “saw” us in 1991. It was our music that gave us away. Grunge was something the Boomers had never really seen before. Our philosophy of life scared them at first glance, even though we had been there right in front of them for awhile. It’s like the Boomers awakened to the stark reality of their children–in 1991. Children who were not content with how the Boomers had approached life. We weren’t Gen Y; we didn’t immediately start hollering and screaming. We were quieter, muted, until Kurt Cobain thrashed around his blond hair on stage and suddenly Boomer parents completely panicked and all hell broke loose.

That was 1991. That was the mood when I was “16 going on 17.” It was everywhere too, not just in my house. Every beleaguered Boomer parent was faced with a teenager whom he/she did not understand and who was not approaching life the way the Boomers as teenagers had approached life. The Boomers freaked out and rightfully so.

Each generation kinda loses it when their own kids decide to think differently than they do. In our ultra-post-modern world, we actually haven’t advanced very far. The Romans and Greek didn’t know what to do with their offspring either. The early Greeks sent their teenagers off as sacrifices to the gods. The Roman armies were full of teens pulled from their parents (or given by their parents) to save the country, the race, the heritage, and the traditions.

It’s always about two different worldviews colliding. It is not a pretty sight and has not been for thousands of years. But in 1991, a new phenomenon appeared as a solution. Parents could remove their kids from life, not by sacrifice or war, but by taking them underground. If by sequestering us, they could save us from a world gone mad, parents felt this a reasonable idea. Removing the world from us and removing us from the world. It’s how convents and monasteries are filled. It’s how our current military beefs up its numbers (I’m not knocking either; just pointing out the obvious). My family (along with countless others) thought this just might work, even if some of the more extremist ideas seemed unnecessary, and so we went.

The last thing I remember in 1991 before going underground was the music of Madonna, the gravelly voice of Michael Bolton, and some band called Nirvana that sang about teen spirit.

And then I disappeared for ten years.

Well, not actually. I was still living and breathing, living with my family (in an above-ground house), moving to the country to a “house on a hill” where we would attempt to be more country than rock and roll, raise chickens and rabbits, plant vegetable gardens and orchards, and where I could safely steer clear of the devastating influences (according to the Boomers) of the grunge rock movement, the evils of a world gone mad, and most importantly to my parents, the influence of anything that might make me “lose my faith.”

It wasn’t all bad, but we scurried quickly, like frightened peoples fleeing the revolution. When I think back to those days, I compare it to a civilian population retreating from the encroaching army determined to plunder. It was a fast descent. Within months, my life had been stripped of outside influences and my focus was inward–toward the family and toward the church.

All good, right? Sure, just in moderation. One cannot simply stick their head in the sand and expect to live life this way. It does not work. Sequestering a family in the country just to hide out from what looks scary and overwhelming was the wrong approach. Our family knows this now, and I think anyone who looks at us now would say it didn’t hurt us too badly. Remember, I experienced Patriarchy Lite.

I learned a lot in the country. I still love sun-warmed apples plucked from the tree just like those my sister-in-law handed me this past weekend from her orchard. I love the smell of harvest and the fields. I love the quiet, with only the occasional bird chirping sounding from the quiet of the valley. I love driving with the windows down in order to smell the different crops. I loved summer nights when our neighbor, an accomplished bagpiper, would play Scotland the Brave and Amazing Grace while marching up and down his mile-long driveway. The sound would rise up to us and for a second, if I squinted and gazed down toward the valley, I felt like I was in Scotland.

No one can take those wonderful moments out of the years we hid away. In the midst of the long years up on that hill, there was beauty. There was peace. There was much love and laughter. There was hilarity in the little moments that I will never forget. Our family came down off that hill a bit bruised, a bit disappointed, slightly disgusted with ourselves and our foolishness, but happy. And the friends from those hill years will be friends for life.

But I am done running. I am going to face it head on, as a survivor, patching together what I can find to make it through. And at the risk of becoming a broken record, especially to readers who really don’t agree with me, but by the grace of God, I would fail. I did not scramble out of our underground years on my own strength. I had help. Family, friends, and something inside of my heart that was stronger than even my desire to stay safe, to stay quiet. It was the desire to be human. It was the desire to prove God’s grace through living my life.

What is the grace of God if we don’t allow anything to hurt or touch us? What are we? If we believe in this grace, why are we so afraid to lean on it? Why do we shrink away from life’s unpleasantness in fear and trepidation? How wimpy is this grace anyway?

That’s what beat stronger inside of me. It still does. The 1950s missionary to the Auca Indians, Jim Elliot, said a few years before his murder, “Remember you are immortal until your work is done.” By hiding, I was not living like Elliot. But when you’re in the middle of it all, you don’t realize how you’re living.

However, in the rush of disappearing from the world, a few specific experiences turned what seemed noble into something tragically comic. I can look back and laugh now (because I’m back above ground), but not back then.

The first one happened in spring 1991, after school was out and our family prepared for our first trip to the nationwide ATIA conference (the annual brainwashing is what it really is). This was before we had moved up to the “house on the hill,” and before things really got started. As you may already know, one of the first rules of patriarchy is that women should not wear pants or attempt to appear masculine-like. With my wildly permed hair at 17, I hardly think looking masculine was a worry, but we were warned again and again by devotees to patriarchy to watch that we don’t wear clothes “unbecoming to a young woman.” As it happens, the worry was not so much that I’d appear like a boy, but that I’d “entrap” the boys with my wicked, wily ways.

So, the beginning was a long time ago. I was in high school, loosely planning on possible colleges and majors, thinking I would know what to do with myself as soon as I turned 17 or 18, because isn’t that how it works?

It was 1990 that I transferred to a Christian high school from my large public high school. That is another story, but I believe the beginning is there. It wasn’t a mistake for me to transfer, as I was a fairly new Christian and my parents wanted to help me stay that way. I was raised in a Christian home, but that’s just not enough. It’s the heart that matters.

At 16, I really, truly made my own decision about my faith. My youth pastor baptized me (for those who aren’t sure what that means, it’s a public affirmation of my decision to identify with Jesus Christ) and afterward, I was still this cautious, unsteady teen, heavily influenced by my peers and by the idea of “being cool.” Underneath all of that teen angst, it was my heart that was still doubting, still searching, still not entirely sure how life would turn out. We’re humans, that’s what our hearts do.

That school year at the Christian high school, I developed friendships that would last a lifetime, learned literature from passionate lit teachers (Tale of Two Cities will always be dear to my heart after Ms. K’s class), and fretted about boys, dating, my hair, my fashion style (I’m a clothes horse). My faith was there, but quiet. I accompanied the choir on the piano at concerts and graduations, hearing more of the language of music than the words we were singing. I was one of those lukewarm believers. Life was easy, nothing had really touched me yet.

My parents cared so very deeply about us kids. They talked us through the tough stuff: school bullies when we were younger, peer pressure, using cuss words, dating. But we were good kids to begin with. We weren’t unruly, we didn’t sneak out of the house, we didn’t even kiss boys (my brother would pipe up here and say he certainly did not kiss anyone!). So it wasn’t that my parents considered us bad kids, but they worried about our hearts. How do parents protect their kids anyway? It’s something parents still struggle with today. There is no user manual for teenagers, never was. It’s about the heart.

My parents took my sister and me to a series of meetings that spring. This was the Institute in Basic Life Principles Basic Seminar, a week-long plunge into “how then shall we live?” Bill Gothard style. Mr. Gothard runs a parachurch organization that seeks to strengthen families and youth, at least that is how it was presented to us. I listened to that first seminar, laughing with our friends who joined us there when they pointed out that Mr. G didn’t have a clue about dating, as “he wasn’t even married!” But the things talked about were exactly what parents of teens worry about: sex, dating, drugs, alcohol, and yes, rebellion. It looked good at first glance. It seemed to offer help to my family and to thousands of other families who were seeking help with their teenagers. And it was good enough, right?

Back then I believed the folks who cautioned me about the seminar were misinformed. And I had very dear family friends who cautioned me many times about the seminar (thank you, K family!). But when you’re going in, and you’re looking for something, the red flags are just not visible yet.

I have read a lot of commentary online from folks who can’t believe we were suckered into these teachings. “How naive can you be?” they ask. “How could you not see the errors in those teachings?” My family (along with the other thousands of families involved with IBLP/ATI) are scolded and chastened, and taken to task for being “just so ignorant.”

That’s fine. But I bet there is something in everyone’s life that is so obvious to outsiders and that you just can’t see. Some preconceived idea that when thought out to completion is just ludicrous. World wars are fought over these emerging ideas. Thinking out ideas all the way is the hard part. Politics happen because people grasp onto ill-conceived ideas that can’t possibly work in the real world. History proves them to be wrong and yet people still believe them. And I’m not talking about one side or the other; I’m talking both sides, all sides.

I say again, it’s the heart. The heart overrules the mind. The heart is where things don’t make sense all the time. I don’t understand completely what got us into that seminar; I know what we’ve all said it was and what my parents say it was. But really, there was something in my heart that drew ME in.

And once inside of something that seems to work, once you latch onto something that seems like it is the “only way” to do your life, your cautions, your friends’ cautions, and every red flag of discomfort that you raise up in defense only falls away.

That’s why I ask readers of this blog to pray (meditate, send good thoughts, whatever) for people you know who are being “suckered” right now. Rather than attacking the bad beliefs intellectually, realize their hearts are engaged. You couldn’t pull them away if you tried. This can be anything that is wrong: mostly I think of women in dangerous and violent relationships, addicts who can’t kick the substance, people who are living a lie, kids trapped in homes where they are hurt, basically human beings from one end of this earth to the other. Everyone knows someone whose heart is engaged even when they don’t want it to be. Everywhere you look, someone’s badly formed ideas are not being thought out to completion. Look at yourself: Where does your pet idea end? What happens when it blooms?

Scoffing at those people who are “just so much more dumb” than you is the most cowardly approach to life I can imagine. Where is YOUR heart?

At the seminar, my family met other families. We began to do more and more with them, listening to their ideas about how to approach life, and mind you, these are good people. These are lawyers and engineers, politicians, doctors, and college professors, not just folks who live off the grid out in the middle of the woods. During that first summer of our adoption into Patriarchy and Quiverfull, it wasn’t unpleasant. We met a lot of interesting people, had lively discussions about life and what to do in this situation or that, and enjoyed the camaraderie. Who wouldn’t? Our hearts were becoming committed.

But then the situation turned.

I owe Thomas Nelson a book review of Hank Hanegraaff’s Christianity in Crisis, 21st Century and have owed it since like April. You’ll see it in tomorrow’s post. But first, today is publication day for Max Lucado’s new book, Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear. I was privileged to receive an advanced reading copy (even my mom got to read it on the cruise) and was very blessed (actually both of us were blessed).

Max Lucado produces amazing books, true. And this book is quite timely in that the summer of 2009 may be perhaps the most fearful of summers we’ve had in a while. Even 2001′s summer seems like a lifetime ago (pre-9/11, I don’t remember any fear at all) and so this book is one that I would press into the hands of friends who are struggling.

It was a wonderful reminder of God’s presence in our lives and that fear must flee when a person is sure of that presence. The thing is that it’s really tough to be sure of much of anything these days. Banks collapsing, a government completely overburdened (state and federal level) by rising debt, and a society stricken by the idea that we have to “retrench” and may have to give up our cable television, our fancy vacations, our shopping sprees, and big houses.

The book asked me what I based my fears on: society’s scariness or God’s neverending love for the human race. It’s hard to see God’s love when the worry clouds cover the horizon. Fear is like the dimming of the lights of faith. It’s like a city gone dark because the local government ran out of money.

Folks, fear will not leave anytime soon. We have to learn to live with it, learn to look at it from a different perspective, learn to look for something else. This book pointed me in the right direction: God’s GRACE. When I freak out (and I do this often) about things out of my control, I have to consider what I’m allowing to cloud my horizon. I have to quit looking at the dark.

Another book I read recently talks about my stuff (how I look at and treat the world and others), others’ stuff (how others look at me and treat me), and God stuff (how we will all survive the next natural or man-made disaster, or whether or not we will lose our jobs or homes). We have to get a grip over what really is “our stuff.”

You can’t guarantee your family won’t get swine flu, or that you won’t lose your job, or that you won’t go hungry. You CAN guarantee that your outlook is hopeful, and that you focus on what matters (your family, your faith, your hope) and you’ll have to also let go of what others do toward you (ignore you, mock you, deride you). I wished that Lucado’s book would have delved deeper into what people fear. I loved the book, but felt it was a light treatment. (Perhaps I go too deep too often.) I wished for more substance. I wished for a book that would quell the fears, power on those lights, and let the clouds blow away. And for many readers, Lucado’s Fearless will do that. For me, it pointed me in the right direction. For that, I am truly grateful.

For most of you reading the blog, you’re probably wondering if I’m about to confess that I’m really from another planet.

Um, no.

Never fear, I’ve always been here.

Actually, I need to confess that I, not so very long ago, was part of another world (on Earth, mind you). This world is the 18 Kids and Counting: Duggar Family show on TLC and is growing leaps and bounds under the influence of Vision Forum, a para-church homeschooling organization in Texas (more on all of that later).

I was as part of the fringe of this crowd for a while. I wore long skirts just like them, cooked meals in quadruple just like them, lived at home with my parents for too long just like them, was afraid of the world and didn’t watch television or movies in the theater, and only read books with happy endings, and I believed, oh did I believe it, that if I did everything just right, down to how long my hair was, what curriculum I was taught (or decided to teach my own children; homeschooling is expected), what books I read, what kind of friends I had, how often I went to church, how many books of the Bible I memorized, and how often I gave my life up for ministry completely, that I would make it. I would be complete! Done! Finito! The end.

But it wasn’t the end. It was simply the beginning.

This blog has long resisted (okay, so I’ve long resisted) talking about this, but my resistance has fried my brain. I no longer can compel myself to stay silent on the subject, not when my days are full of much prayer, much study, much thinking, must rehashing, much “rightly dividing” what exactly I came out of and how in the world I must live my life now.

I’ve spoken of the memoir work and the essays that have taken over my brain. I can’t keep up the “expert” facade forever on this blog. I’m a writer who survived a homeschooling cult, what I call Patriarchy Lite and what others will know as ATI/IBLP/Bill Gothard. I only know a tiny bit about writing. I only know a tiny bit about travel. I know nothing about how life should be, how things will turn out, and I don’t have a life plan that I know actually works. I just have to-do lists and dreams.

And the to-do lists and dreams are greatly influenced by where I came from. I want nothing to do with where I was. I am moving forward as fast as I can go.

Patriarchy is a cult. It looks so good on the outside, and so many pieces of it I agree with. But what the Bible shows me is not patriarchy as we have seen it. The Bible never recommends it, never puts it first. The Bible covered the entire patriarchy system with grace. Patriarchy is no longer first. I believe that with all my heart.

I’m lucky that patriarchy did not really hurt me. For a while though, it sure tried.

In truth:
I did not get locked in a room with bread and water until I cried for forgiveness.

I did not have to choose between obeying my father or the leadership.

I did not have to get married at 18 and immediately start having babies.

I was not physically hurt or emotionally harmed.

I was emotionally and spiritually manipulated, but I made it out and my mind will heal.

I am lucky. I have seen grace. I know it works. I believe in it. I believe in second chances, in black and white dissolving into gray. I believe we do not know as much as we think we do.

The reason I believe this is that I didn’t see the worst of it. I was out of patriarchy before I saw how truly horrible it was. But there are still people inside it. I must write for them.

I won’t convince them though, all those firmly ensconced in it. I am not even going to try. I am going to talk to all of you who won’t ever set foot in it, who are able to sidestep the innate longing within each of us to “belong” and who use your minds to think and to ponder.

I believe every person alive is in a “cult” of some sort. There is some person or some thought in our lives that holds us captive to an idea, a reasoning, and a belief.

Because I’m a Christian, I believe the only thing that can really truly set us free from a cult is the grace of God. I know to those who don’t believe in such things that I’m sounding nonsensical right now. I’m sorry. I do welcome thoughts and comments.

This is me. Covered by grace. Human. Prone to foibles. Emotional. Often confused. But I will never stop seeking my way through this life. What you will see is how I’m doing now.

Today marks Easter Sunday. Instead of writing, I’m remembering the reason I write. Before anyone of you thinks I’m going to start preaching, relax. I’m not.

But I am talking about why I write. And it is Easter Sunday that is my reason. You may write for other reasons. Just don’t let it be only for money or fame. Neither of those will get you everything you want.

I write because if I don’t write, I’m restless. I fidget, get anxious, think I’m losing my sanity, and am grumpy enough to have to self-correct. Sure, earning a living from my writing would be great and to do that I have to become somewhat famous, but really, I love to write. Yet it’s still not enough.

The motivation for writing can’t just be because you love it. There must be some sort of purpose. What are you trying to accomplish? What good are you giving back to the world when you write? And yes, I believe everyone who writes gives back something.

Anyway, it’s worth pondering today (for me, most importantly), because today reminds me that the reason I write is to give and show grace. You don’t have to define it the same as I do, but grace is needed in this world.

I write to give more grace. And I have a great time while I do it, which is cool. I also might get paid for it and become semi-famous as side results.

I just hope I always keep to my primary objective.

I’ve been reading a lot about different beliefs within the Protestant movement. I’m not sure how this happens, but I end up reading like four books in a row that showcase the varieties of strange ideas that tend to pop up within the Reformation-revived overarching belief system.

Quiverfull by Kathnryn Joyce, In the Beginning, A New Interpretation of Genesis by Karen Armstrong, Eve by Elissa Eliott, Christianity in Crisis 21st Century by Hank Hanegraaff, and The Best American Spiritual Writing 2008 by Philip Zaleski (which veers in and out of Protestantism depending on the piece you’re reading).

The thing I noted with alarming alacrity is that Protestantism (which founded itself on the GRACE of GOD) has forgotten all about grace. Instead, talking heads and leadership have replaced the grace with Pharisaical laws and prosperity preachings. Nowhere has grace been more forgotten than in religion. And this is a shame.

The bottom line of our existence, according to Martin Luther, is our choice to accept salvation or not. We are not born automatically saved, no matter how many blessings or family patriarchies our great-great-great grandfathers planned out for us. Every person born must make a choice on their own.

However, we are not cursed to die without hope either. Everyone has hope, no matter what they’ve done or experienced. No one qualifies as second-class or tainted goods in a belief system that includes grace. Yet, no one can “think” their way out of poverty or illness or death. No one can simply extend a hand out and become a god.

It is through grace, the grace offered freely to us through Jesus Christ, that we have a chance. I’m not trying to cram it down throats today, but I do want to make one thing startingly clear: Do not think that Protestant Christianity is all about think and grow rich because Jesus was wealthy while on earth and wore designer clothes (a tactic of the Faith movement or what I call the Prosperity Gospel movement) or that Protestant Christianity will beat you over the head because as a woman you dare to read a Bible verse aloud in church or don’t have as many children as you possibly can (a tactic of the patriarchy movement, or what I call the modern-day Pharisees).

Please think of Protestant Christianity as a belief that offers unlimited grace to all. That we believe that Jesus Christ came to earth specifically to die for our wrong choices, our wrong actions, our wrong behaviors, and that because of his sacrifice, his horrible death on a cross on a hill, we are free. This is what I believe, and what I tell all my friends who don’t share my beliefs when they ask me questions about what I do believe.

But I do ask everyone who reads this, especially those who are partial to these other belief systems, if you were hurt, injured beyond repair, disgraced, abandoned, or guilty, wouldn’t you want a God of grace?

And for fellow Protestants who have forgotten, what is with the lack of grace these days?

Okay, so Gawker caught my attention with this bit on the NYT’s editor’s wife (did you get that?) who keeps getting her novels and books highlighted in the NYTBR. I smell a bozo.

And experts claim they have solved the mystery of Stonehenge. Cool.

And a more personal bit about Sarah Palin. I read a book about her last week (a very quick read) and learned a lot about her. However, a friend found this article from Salon.com (which has actually been quite fair toward Sarah Palin) and it told me more than I wanted to know.

The International Association of Character Cities is a “secular” cover for Character First! Education, which is a secularized character training program developed by the Institute in Basic Life Principles and the Advanced Training Institute, headed by Bill Gothard.

I was a part of IBLP and ATI (my parents have asked my forgiveness countless times) and we’re done with that for good. We no longer subscribe to the IBLP/ATI version of submission to authority or grace or even salvation. However, I worked for Character First! as an editor for many years and for that part I must now publicly say I no longer support anything to do with IACC or CF!E as I no longer align myself with their definitions of character.

I don’t think Palin’s attendance at an Indianapolis Training Center IACC conference in 2000 turns me off completely, but I will say it gives me chills. IBLP/ATI was a powerful entity in the 1970s through the 1990s, but it has irreparably harmed many, many lives. So many that I know (me included) mistakenly believed Mr. Gothard’s “biblical” teaching as the Gospel and missed the true grace-filled message of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful for the powerful teaching of my pastors since then who have helped me dismantle those lies and see the love and grace that is free-flowing to all, no matter what they’ve done, who they are, how they describe themselves, or what they’re opposed to. This love and grace knows no bounds. This love and grace cannot be quelled.

This love and grace is more important than winning an election. I will vote my conscience and will let others vote theirs.